


don't knock it till you've tried it

by Kealpos



Series: Author's Favorites [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Inspired by Fanart, Murder, Spoilers for MAG 167, Time Travel, Unhappy Ending, cecil palmer voice kill your double.., does this technically count as a murder-suicide orrrr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:26:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24225046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kealpos/pseuds/Kealpos
Summary: There's a monster in Georgie Barker's flat. It's sitting six feet away, in her spare bedroom, and staring at her wide-eyed next to Jonathan Sims' corpse.There's a monster in her flat, and it's got Jonathan Sims' face.
Relationships: Georgie Barker & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Author's Favorites [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2033281
Comments: 41
Kudos: 630





	don't knock it till you've tried it

**Author's Note:**

> so ive wanted to make/read a "jon dies and releases the assistants" thing ever since 167 bc like.. the POTENTIAL.. and then cary-atherton-art on tumblr made [this comic](https://cary-atherton-art.tumblr.com/post/618263105965834240/okay-okay-get-this-time-travel-au-but-not-to) and well, i basically had to write this? it wouldnt leave me alone!

It’s not his best plan, he’s aware of that much. However, he can’t turn back anymore, even if he genuinely wanted to. It would be impossible, and an idea tinged with more guilt and regret. Helen only allowed him through her corridors to let him finish this, and he knows-- _Knows_ that it hurt her.

The door, yellow paint peeling off in spiraling curls, opens silently, and The Archives wish his… ally luck. A part of him hopes it wouldn’t have destroyed her too much. He seems to have arrived right where he wanted to, anyway, so maybe. But, no. No, he knows. It hurt her, to be Comprehended and Understood, and despite trying to stifle it, he just couldn’t stop himself from indulging in the complication of her hallways greedily. Even at the end of the world, drowning in sorrow and misery for him to devour, he still felt the need to make everything make sense.

As he walks out with hesitant steps, careful to not make any noise, his gaze darts around the sparse room until it finally falls on what he’s looking for: a young man, dark hair trailing down his shoulders in soft-looking curls, hunched in on himself as he pours over a stack of papers. Though The Archives can’t see much of his skin due to his back being turned away, he knows that this is a man who, despite having faced worms, has not dealt with wax-women, clown mannequins, or a hunter with a bone to pick.

Jonathan Sims, missing almost all of his scars, sits in front of him and looks so _young._

He pours over the details of his much younger, more naive self. The feeling of a thousand eyes prickles like static in the back of his head, and he has to admit, it’s strange to be cut off and away from a world ruled by the Watcher’s Crown, though he doesn’t regret it one bit. Jon, younger Jon, looks tense from his place on the spare bed.

He shucks the knife from its place in his backpack, packed a very long time ago by a man who no longer exists anywhere but filed away within The Archives. There is another man out there much like him, but it is not _his_ Martin, and he will never be that Martin, as long as The Archives have something to say about it. He will be sad, oh yes, but any sadness is worth more than any life he could have with any Jon.

It’s just a carving knife, old and clean despite once having been smattered with gore from their wanderings. _It gets the job done,_ he could imagine Daisy saying in that gruff, comforting voice of hers. She’ll be a completely different person now, won’t she? Someone never trapped like a dog in a kennel, who hurts people without thinking. Maybe she’ll really kill him this time. His hand rises to his throat on instinct, like it always does when he thinks about her. He doesn’t feel that rush of fear like he used to. He’d be a hypocrite if he did.

Once The Archives get a sturdy grip on the knife’s hilt, Helen’s door creaks shut -- it's likely the last time The Archives will ever hear it, so he mentally files it away, deep inside his chest cavity -- which startles Jon out of his academic fog. He watches as Jon slowly turns and his eyes pop out of his head, but before Jon can get out more than a frightened “Wha-” The Archives _lunge_ for him.

The Archives are… The Archives are stronger now, stronger than they once were. Stronger than Jon, _definitely._ He finally gets what everyone meant when they said he was light and compact because Jon goes down much too easily. Not like he _wanted_ much of a struggle, he isn't exactly Hunt-aligned. Still, it's interesting, interacting with his past self. He just wishes that it was a meeting on much better terms.

The two of them make identical sounds when they hit the ground, which sends a hideous thrill down The Archives’ spine. The Archives gain his wits much quicker than Jon does, and decides to slap a hand over his double’s mouth before any other noises can come from it. This is Georgie’s flat, after all, and she still-- Oh, yes, there she goes. He can feel her stand from the couch, concerned as she comes over to his door. With an eye, he can peer at her through the walls.

“Jon?” She calls, knocking gently on the door. “You alright? Sounded like you fell pretty badly.” Her eyes are a dark, deep brown, and he Knows she smells like cinnamon and cat hair, and oh, god, he missed her so bad.

His past self wriggles underneath him and tries to call out desperately, but The Archives’ hand muffles the noises too much for them to be heard by her, especially when The Archives pitch his voice up and says, somewhat awkwardly, “Uh, yes! Yes, I’m perfectly fine. I, I just fell off the bed accidentally.” He sounds suitably embarrassed, and she has no _reason_ to think that he is anything other than perfectly safe, so he watches her shrug to herself on the other side of the door.

“Ah. Well, uh, don’t do that next time.” Georgie smiles warmly at the door, her fond, sarcastic tone filtering through, and The Archives smile back, Jon attempting to get louder with his cries. The Archives just pushes harder against him, his elbow going into Jon’s stomach until he quiets down again, lost of breath. “Right, actually, I’m heading to the store, do you need anything?”

“N- Uh, no thank you, Georgie!” He continues relishing the sound of her voice when it’s not angry at him. He’ll have to stick around, make sure she doesn’t get stuck for a murder that it isn’t her fault, so he’s sure she’ll be _very_ angry with him soon.

“Alright! See you later, then!”

“Uh, r-right, see you later!” The Archives watch carefully as she leaves the door and collects her stuff, and he doesn’t pay any attention to the man beneath him until finally, blessedly, she steps out of the flat. He hesitates a few moments longer, just in case, and when he gets that she’s not coming back for some time, he sighs, deflating with it.

“So,” he begins, staring down at the man below him, letting up on the weight pressing against his stomach. “I’m sure you want answers.”

Jon’s voice is muffled for very apparent reasons, and The Archives have no intention of letting him speak again soon, but he knows what he’s saying -- both from guessing what he would want to know, and the strange feeling of restrained lips moving against the meat of his hands to try and form words.

“Right, where to begin… Um, I will likely not give you the full story, as that would take too long, but, uh, the gist is: I’m you from an apocalyptic future, and I’m here to stop it. The apocalypse, that is. It’s-- It’s my fault. So, in a way, it’ll be your fault. I started the ritual, and I’m going to prevent it from ever happening.” 

The Archives’ knife is only a few inches away from where he dropped it in the scuffle, so he leans his body over and drags it closer without removing his hand. He can feel Jon go painfully tense under him, can see the way his eyes dart over to the knife, his pupils blown open in fear. He attempts to wriggle free, so The Archives grit his teeth, pushing him harder into the ground, his face contorted in a hard snarl that gets Jon to settle down. He’s shaking, but he’s otherwise still.

“I recently discovered some information, though it was much too late to really do anything of worth if I applied it to myself. Well, _myself_ myself.” He chuckles, and Jon gives him a contemptuous look, which is quite valiant of him and also a testament to how much of a prat Jon really is. Still, even past the anger, he looks terrified. “This information,” The Archives continue delicately, “instructs me on how to, how to release all my archival assistants. Tim, Melanie… Martin. All of them. They’d be able to leave their jobs, be free. I-- I want that for them, Jon.”

The Archives pause, just sitting there on top of Jon and breathing in and out through his nose, his physical eyes closed for a moment. And then, he reopens them, and stares down at his younger self, making sure that he focuses so much of his gaze on the man that it makes him dizzy. Jon looks faintly ill, his eyes darting everywhere until they finally settle back on The Archives.

“You want that too, don’t you, Jon?” The Archives finally ask. After a long pause, he presses down harder on Jon Sims’ body, growling out, “ _Answer me,_ ” with a fine coating of compulsion over it until he answers, nervously nodding his head.

The Archives nod back, his breath shuddering with a wave of sudden, inexplicable anger. Just, the idea that Jon would _disagree._ Would be so _selfish._ “Good,” he says. “So you’ll understand why I do this. Just like everything else in this… stupid world, it’s all terrible choices and actions. The only way to release them is-- is--” He licks his lips, his throat harsh and dry. “The Archivist has to _die,_ Jon.”

The Archives can see the moment Jon understands what he means, and rather than nodding, bravely carrying on, he just gets _squirmier._ He now knows why everybody called him a dickhead. To stop Jon, he presses his free hand against his throat, and he can feel his pulse beating quickly under his touch. It’s probably not good that it feels sort of gratifying.

“God, Jon,” The Archives grit out, releasing his neck once Jon settles down. “This is-- I _have_ to. I _have_ to free them, no matter what. So, I, I kill you. And if it doesn’t work, if they’re all still… _trapped,_ I kill myself as well. If they’re freed by your death, then, well. Then I’ll work from there. But, you get it, right? It all hinges on _this,_ Jon. Your death. _My_ death.”

He sighs again, just so, so, so tired. This has to work. He doesn’t have any other options. “Right, look,” The Archives say, closing his eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry about this. But I-- I _cannot_ let the ritual be completed here, and besides, this, this-- this way they could all leave.”

Jon’s hand rises and settles fearfully on The Archives’ arm, attempting to tug him away, but he is just so much _stronger_ than Jon, in so many ways. He can feel Jon’s stifled pleas under his hand, the words trying to find their way out past the skin of his palm. “I, uh-- It won’t hurt, I promise. Not… Not for long, at least,” The Archives reassure, but it does nothing to quell the terror in his younger counterpart’s eyes.

“The ends justify the means,” he mutters to himself. “I’m sorry, I really am. You’d just regret me not killing you. I know I certainly would,” he finishes with a small voice.

He leans down, awkwardly folding his body in half as he bends to kiss his own self’s forehead. The Archives’ lips land right where the hairline and the forehead meet, and it lingers, Jon’s dutifully cleaned hair curled around his head like a dark halo. Then, he pulls away, grabbing the carving knife in his free hand, his younger self beginning to struggle once more once he’s realized that The Archives’ monologue is over, and he’s really about to kill him.

The Archives shush him awkwardly, lining the knife up against his neck, right where his own scar is. Jon doesn’t have a scar from Daisy yet, and he never will, but The Archives can still remember exactly where it is, exactly how much deeper Daisy needed to press. There is no-one to stop the killer now. His double makes one more pathetic, fearful sound of despair, tears snaking down his face.

“Sorry,” The Archives say one last time because despite what he’s doing, he _is._ He’s _so sorry._ Then, with the same ferocity of an avatar of the Hunt or the Slaughter, he brings the knife down with all his might, straight through Jonathan Sims’ throat.

*

She’s in the store when it happens. 

Georgie was standing in front of the bread section, inspecting the prices. She had been doing the same white bread for years now, probably, but ever since Jon had to move in, they were eating a lot more bread combined. Maybe she should switch to a cheaper brand, just until everything’s dandy with him again? She cares for him, obviously, and doesn’t mind housing him for the time being, but _god,_ she wishes he could pay her back somehow. He has been cleaning around the house and taking care of the Admiral, but still. It gets expensive. She could just charge Jon later, after he’s got a stable job again, but wouldn’t that just be a little _mean,_ you think?

Her thoughts are racing along as she inspects the differences in bread (she doesn’t want to change, but a podcaster isn’t exactly the most lucrative job) when it hits. Out of nowhere, Georgie can’t help but double over at a sudden, white-hot pain that cracks at her in the front of her head. The pain passes just as quickly as it came, but it just felt like something hit right between her eyes, and the feeling reverberated down through her entire body.

It’s nearly ten-thirty in the morning on a Wednesday, so at least there’s practically nobody there to catch her right herself with shaking limbs, slumping against her trolley. She can’t seem to get her legs to stop knocking, and she feels like she just got the wind knocked out of her.

That.. was _weird._

Georgie breaths in and out slowly, bracing herself against her cart as she gets herself back in order. Right, okay. That’s a sign to keep to her regular bread, if anything, so she tosses it in with the rest of the groceries, and goes on her merry way, if just a little bit slower than before.

She’s pretty unconcerned. It happens all the time, right? That’s part of getting old; sometimes you face debilitating pain for no reason, and then it either gets worse and you die, or it gets better and you die at a different time. Georgie can clearly remember when Jon got appendicitis before they got together, and she offered to help. He tried to refuse, but he eventually buckled down and called her, and it was kind of nice, though she hadn’t appreciated the weight of surgery that had been hanging over them. Huh, it was kind of like how it is now, except appendicitis has been replaced by murder charges, and also she’s pretty sure this experience will not shake out to be the bonding they need to push them into a relationship.

Overall, Georgie figures everything’s fine.

At least, she figures everything’s fine until the call from Melanie comes, when she’s just a few minutes away from the flat. The grocery store is only around twenty minutes away, which means it’s close enough that she usually forces herself to walk there rather than using her car. When she feels her phone buzz in her jacket pocket, she considers letting it wait until she gets home, but relents, moving all the grocery bags to one arm while she fishes her cell out, and she doesn’t regret it, because it’s Melanie!

“Hey, what’s up?” She asks, attempting to adjust her phone and all her bags without stopping in the middle of the sidewalk like an asshole.

“Uh, George? You aren’t doing anything, are you? Can you come pick me up?” Her voice from the other side of the phone is unsettled and confused, which makes Georgie confused because Melanie sounding that stumped doesn’t happen that often.

“Uh, sure,” she begins, looking quickly at the incoming cars before running across a crosswalk. “I suppose so? I actually just got finished grocery shopping, so I need to put it all away, but then I’ll come and get you. Why, did something happen?”

Melanie’s silent for a few seconds, but the pause feels more disorientated than her trying to avoid talking. “I have no idea,” she finally says, before sighing. “Bouchard just came down looking frazzled, told us to go home for the rest of the day and that he’d send out an email to us later? Didn’t really stop and explain. Tim left, no questions asked, but Martin’s waiting with me because he takes the tube.”

Georgie hums noncommittally as she finally spots her building, only a few paces ahead. “Well, alright! I’ve just got to put my stuff away, but then I can pick you up. Um, give me like, an hour? Tops? Go sit down at a cafe or something while you wait.”

“Right. Will do.” Melanie exhales, and then quickly adds, in a hushed tone, “Don’t bring Jon.”

“Duh,” she laughs. Jon and Melanie get on just as well as a hose and a house fire. “I mean, he’s still at the flat, though, so I’ll take you to your place.”

“Right. Sounds good. See you soon, Georgie.” Her voice cuts off in the middle of her asking the person waiting with her -- Martin, right? Jon talks about a Martin pretty often, so, yeah, Martin -- if he wants tea, and she can’t help but smile at her phone as she gets into the lift.

After all that, with the pain and the call, she could just mark it off as a strange day for everyone. She could mark it off as a series of small coincidences, small oddness in the way everyone’s step is falling.

Georgie can’t, however, ignore anything the moment she steps into her flat, because the minute she pushes in the door, she feels instantly breathless. She can’t exactly get frightened anymore, but there are occasions where she feels like an explosive cocktail, angry and sad and curious all at once in a way where she _knows_ she would be scared if she were still able to be. There’s this feeling in the air that permeates in the whole flat, so heavy that it takes all her might to push through the invisible barrier of the door.

When she gets through, the Admiral comes yowling for her, snaking around her legs with hackles raised. He hisses at something deeper within her home, and, well, if the Admiral is frightened, she should probably start planning for something to be scared of. 

Once she’s set the groceries down, Georgie makes sure she’s got one hand gripping her phone and the other holding her self-defense knife as she stalks through her house, the cat following tightly behind. She isn’t quite sure what she expects, but it definitely is not the Admiral _screaming_ when they pass the spare bedroom. Georgie pauses as he yells because her mind skips back, replays, thinks to herself, _hey, Jon was in there when you left._

Oh, she thinks faintly. God.

“Jon?” She calls out, knocking gently on the door which, honestly, not her best move, probably. “Jon, are you-- You in there?”

There’s a very long pause, the silence between them stretching like a rubber band, thinning out perilously until -- _snap!_

“Yes, Georgie. It’s me. Come in.”

There’s still no fear in her movements, we established that earlier, but at the sound of Jon’s voice, she’s filled with some heady emotion that makes her feel like she’s buzzing out of her skin. Not without great trepidation, she finally reaches out and grabs the doorknob, twists it. Pushes the door in.

When Georgie pushes the door in and sees the-- the _thing_ in there, that’s when she realizes what the emotion is, even if it’s a bit of a stretch to call it an emotion; the thing causing the heavy rising-and-falling of her chest: it’s deja vu.

There is a monster, sitting in Georgie Barker’s flat. There are maybe six feet of separation between her and the monster, the monster that stares at her. Its eyes are wide, wider than she figures any human eye could grow. Its irises are an unnaturally bright green and the sclera is pitch black, as if there is a hole right in its face. The eyes on its face aren’t the only ones, however. There are more eyes, dotting up occasionally across its skin, an especially big one right in the middle of what looks to be a rippling wound on its hand. There’s even one right in the middle of its neck, closing and opening infrequently.

The monster is sitting right next to Jonathan Sims’ corpse. _Her_ Jonathan Sims, the one who’s been staying with her for weeks and she used to be in love with once and cleans the kitchen when he doesn’t have to just to feel useful and is somehow able to predict the Admiral’s mood without more than one glance at his body language. Jonathan Sims, who started a shitty punk with her back in Uni. Jonathan Sims, who yelps whenever he spots a spider. Jonathan Sims, who always looks so _goddamn_ scared all the time, even though she’s been trying to tell him that nothing’s going to happen to him.

That’s a lie, now, because something _did_ happen, because Georgie has seen corpses before and that-- and that-- and that is a _lot_ of blood coming from Jon’s neck.

The thing is, though. That’s not even the freakiest part. No, the freakiest part is this: this monster, this eye-covered monster, watching her with an expression she can’t comprehend, sitting calmly next to the corpse of one of her best friends? He’s got the exact same face as Jonathan Sims.

“What the fuck,” falls out of her mouth before she can stop it, and if anything Jon’s-- the _monster’s_ gaze just gets more focused on her. A hysterical, startled part of Georgie thinks, _but, wait, didn’t Jon just tell you to come in?_

“Georgie,” it says in a perfect recreation of Jon’s voice. The one word is filled to the brim with relief, as well as underlying nerves. She did always like how Jon would speak in that very proper accent of his, and she enjoyed hearing him say her name, carefully enunciating it like he had to be delicate with it. Hearing the monster pronounce it the same way sends a violent, angry shiver throughout her whole body. “Georgie, it, it’s _you._ ”

She could say so many things to that, could scream and yell and cry and double-check what she already knows, but instead, she asks, in a steady voice, “How’re you doing that? That voice. Why do you sound like Jon?”

It looks momentarily stricken, the expression of confusion unnatural on its not-quite-human face. Then, it sets its jaw and sits up, rocking back on its heels. There’s blood on its hands, she notes, faintly, and quite a bit staining where its knees press into the pool around Jon’s neck. “I,” it starts cautiously, as if toying with the idea of speaking further, “am The Archives. Or, uh, I, I’m Jonathan Sims, from a, uh, an apocalyptic future, I suppose.”

She blinks at it. It blinks back, with all of its eyes.

“You killed him,” she eventually says, partially a statement and partially a question. Her voice sounds unnatural in her own ears, too calm for what she’s saying. Shock, she figures. “M-my Jon. Real Jon. You… Killed him.” It nods. “Are you going to kill me?” It shakes its head.

Alright.

Georgie isn’t quite sure what to do now. In one hand, she has her phone, but who can she call? In the other hand, she has a knife, but the monster has _Jon’s face_ on it. Besides, its hesitation to kill her might change if she strikes at it, she can _see_ the knife it used sitting next to Jon’s head, still coated in dark red blood. She’s not scared, but she is wary, sad, and angry. She just wishes it were a deadlier combination.

They just stare at one another for a very long time, until eventually, Georgie’s legs give out from under her, and she falls to her knees with a slam that reverberates its way through her spine. The monster jerks forward at the sound, reaching out as if it intends to help her, but she snaps, “Get away!” and it backs off, its hand springing back to its body with such force that it rocks away from Jon’s corpse.

She brandishes the knife out in front of her as she crawls over to Jon, keeping one eye on the monster the whole time, who’s only now starting to look seriously guilty or regretful. Finally, she reaches him and turns her attention to his body, the cooled blood pooled around his head sticky under her legs.

He’s clearly been dead for, well, how long ago did she leave? How long has she been in her flat, in the bedroom, just surveying the scene? Not more than an hour, maybe, still in the very beginnings of fresh decay. Georgie props his head up slightly so she can examine his wounds and almost gags at the sight. His face is stuck in an expression of palpable shock and terror, his eyes -- a dark brown, unlike his impersonator -- staring distantly into a place unknown. Jon’s skin has grown slightly ashen, cool and tough to the touch, and right in the middle of his neck is a large stab wound, a bloody, slashed hole against his skin. Dried, slightly flaky blood coats his neck and the front of his chest, including a shirt he borrowed from Georgie. It’s even in his hair, sticking to it in clumps.

She can feel the monster still watching her, can see it in the corner of her eye. It wrings its hands nervously, like Jon does-- did, but carefully avoids the large, fluttering eye on one of them.

“Why?” Georgie asks quietly, as she begins to card her fingers through Jon’s hair. She half expects him to sit up violently and whisper a horrible, mind-numbing, wonderful secret she already knows into her ear. The monster watches her, surprised, and the force of its gaze makes her feel slightly nauseous. “Why did-- Why’d you kill him, why are you still here?”

It doesn’t answer until she looks over at it and gives it a hard glare, to which it stammers out, “W-w-would you believe me if I said I was attempting to, to save the world?”

Georgie stares at it, and, dredging up as much hatred as she can muster when she feels so… _numbed,_ answers simply, dripping with loathing, “Yes.” It must be a pretty decent amount of malice, because it reels back and, hilariously, _it’s_ the one that looks devastated.

“Um,” it finally tries, looking a bit like a cornered animal. “I’m still here because-- Well, it’s one thing to ah--” It gestures to Jon’s body under her hands and she _hates._ “But it’s, well, I wasn’t just going to leave and get you pinned for it. Plus, I, I needed to see if it worked!”

“Well, thank you for not letting me get accused of _murdering_ Jon!” Georgie replies with audible frustration. Then she pauses, squinting at it suspiciously. “If _what_ worked?”

Its story of it being a version of Jonathan Sims from a future it left is honestly pretty believable. The monster shares a lot of mannerisms with the real Jon, from the way it wrings its hand to the way it stutters. The expression rippling throughout its whole body, shameful and properly chastised as it looks down at its feet, is oddly reminiscent of all the times she laid into Jon during a nasty fight back in Uni. It seems like it's not going to talk, just sit there curled up like a sad little cat, until it hurriedly mumbles, “Could you, ah, call-- call Melanie for me? I need to see if she… If she got released from her job.”

She scoffs loudly, and it flinches at the sound. Georgie moves Jon’s head gently out of her lap, and then once he’s placed in a better position, jumps to her feet and stalks towards the eyeball monster who’s shrinking in on itself rapidly. “ _No,_ ” she says firmly, pushing further into its space. “No! You know what, I’ve humored you long enough for a creature that _admitted_ to _killing my friend,_ all while you’re being obtuse and making demands you have _no right_ to make! How do you even _know her!?_ ” 

She’s right on the precipice between giving it a lecture and shouting at it, her boots thudding dangerously as she backs it into a corner. Not having any fear can be dangerous sometimes, and often affects the way she judges her life rapidly, but right now it just bolsters her until her anger and sadness funnel right into making her the most menacing person in the room at that moment. It looks like a kicked dog when she snarls at it, “So give me one _fucking reason_ I shouldn’t sic the cops on you _right now._ ”

“They-- They-- They-- They won’t believe you!” It finally shouts back, its face twisted into a defensive rage. “I, I mean, who would? What, a double of a man who’s been accused of murder who you’ve been harboring came and, and _killed him?_ It’s ridiculous! They won’t believe you at all! You know who will? Melanie. S-so, call Melanie _right this instant._ ” 

Despite the words being awfully bold (and admittedly true), its voice is shaking with nerves. Her vision goes red before she snatches the fabric of its shirt, all of the monster’s eyes going very wide with surprise, and she drags the monster up closer to her face, its weight an absolute fucking _joke._ To the monster -- pathetic and more frightened than she thinks she’s ever seen on a creature -- Georgie says, very simply, very angrily, very strongly: “ _Make. Me._ ”

There’s this moment, a long, quiet moment where the two are at a standstill, Georgie grasping the monster’s shirt with bared teeth and the thing staring at her in inconceivable terror. Georgie wants to hurt it, but also doesn’t at the same time. Maybe it would be easier to really hurt it if she were a little harsher, a little meaner in the way Melanie would count as a victory. Maybe it would be easier if it still weren’t wearing Jon’s _fucking_ face.

The monster just stares at her in horror for a long while, before all at once, a flash of anger crosses its face, and the sound of rising static fills her ears. It sounds like a distant memory, grown unflattering and mundane in the time since its occurrence. It sounds like a deep, dark, endless nothing. It sounds like a whisper, right in her ear, no matter how hard she tries to block it out.

If Georgie could still be scared, she’d be screaming.

“Stop,” she says, dropping the monster’s collar as she shuffles back, nearly falling over in her attempt to get away. That _hurts._ “Stop!” She says louder when the static doesn’t relent, but after a moment, it passes, and she braces herself against one of the walls, the headache from earlier coming back with a vengeance.

The monster, for its part, coughs when it falls to the ground, both of them having underestimated how high she was holding it. “I can find you poli-- I can find you _people_ who will believe you,” it finally wheezes out. “They’ll take care of me. It, It’s probably not the solution you want, but it’s the only one you’ll get. I can answer more questions later, I just-- I just need you to call Melanie, ask her if she’s been released from the Magnus Institute.” Then, “I’m sorry, Georgie. I shouldn’t have-- I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sure it hurt.”

She stares at it for a minute, slack-jawed, before slowly pushing away from the wall. Her phone is next to Jon’s face, still painfully devastating in a way that she can’t afford to think about yet. Georgie scoops it up, hesitates, and gently closes his eyelids, still open to a cloudy, distant gaze. Then, she straightens up and turns to the monster that has Jonathan Sims’ face, all barely-blinking eyes and pathetic monsterhood, and hisses, “I will call Melanie,” a mixture of burning hatred and stifling obedience. She can tell from the look on the monster’s face that it does not count this a win.

Georgie turns and sweeps out of the room, slamming the door behind her. A glance at her phone tells her she’s been in her flat for at least an hour and a half, and Melanie has called her thrice. It’s easy enough to press the redial button and watch as the call goes through, the Admiral finally coming to poke his head out from wherever he hid when she met the thing in the spare bedroom.

The call clicks as Melanie answers, her loud voice punching against her skull as she automatically exclaims, “George! Where are you? Martin left, like, forty minutes ago, and I’ve been worried something happened. You alright?” There’s a long heavy silence before Melanie asks, quieter this time, “Did-- Did something actually happen?”

Something is clogging her throat, burning her eyes; something that makes it hard to imagine ever saying she feels alright ever again. Georgie takes a swipe at her face with her sleeve, breathes in and out harshly, and then asks, one eye locked on the door of the spare bedroom: “Melanie, what do you know about getting rid of monsters?”

**Author's Note:**

> whew this thing really got away from me! especially the georgie pov! that was hard as shit to write and i still dont know if it came out right or not! anymways.........
> 
> if you read through all of this, thanks! i mentioned in the beginning notes how ive wanted to write smth like this ever since 167 came out. i remember listening to it while cooking food and being like ".........hey. you could do a writing out of this." so im glad i managed to finish something for that concept. i was originally thinking some self-sacrificial "the assistants all join hands and bond as a team as they kill their boss singing kumbaya life is good hallelujah" bullshit (still good!) but after checking out the comic mentioned above this basically wrote itself. or, at least the first part did!
> 
> ive been lamenting on my tumblr about how easy it is to writer murder but how the rest of it isnt fun. and thats still true! jons bit was written mostly in one sitting, with slight revisions as i worked on the georgie bit. it was georgies pov that gave me the most of the trouble, and im still somewhat unsatisfied with it? like, playing 4d chess trying to figure out how someone would react if this all happened to them. nearly all of this was written between the hours of one to four am over the course of several days so that also may be part of the problem? who knows
> 
> again, thanks for reading! im also on tumblr [@selkiecoded](http://www.selkiecoded.tumblr.com) and i have a couple of [tma character playlists](https://selkiecoded.tumblr.com/post/623316996747067392/introducing-the-ever-unforgettable-tartle-101)


End file.
